Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  “Jesus, Mary, ‘n’ Joseph,” Jack exclaimed, “would you look who’s here.” He pointed toward the center of the bar.

  Through a small clearing, Morgan sighted their old squad buddy. “I’ll be damned.”

  Sure enough, there stood Boomer, with his black cowlick and bushy eyebrows. One foot propped on a chair, he swooshed a pint glass while undoubtedly reciting one of his humorous gems to the GIs circled about him.

  “No way you can leave now,” Jack said.

  Morgan tossed a glance at his watch. The stores would be closing soon, but he couldn’t go without first saying hi. “After you,” he said, and followed Jack’s lead.

  On the way, Jack stopped at a table of flyboys. He snagged the backs of two empty chairs. “Mind if we take these?”

  “All yours,” the larger guy said in a subdued tone, barely audible over Boomer’s mock Irish brogue.

  “ ‘Ah, Murphy,’ “ Boomer cried in a falsetto voice, “ ‘being that it’s yer eightieth birthday, yer friends hired me as a special treat. In honor of yer big day, I’m goin’ to give ya super sex.’ “ He lowered his vocal key. “Confident that sex with the young lass would end his life with a heart attack, Murphy answered the gal, ‘Well, thank ya, miss. But, if it’s all the same to ya, I’ll take the soup.’”

  His audience broke into laughter.

  Jack parked his chair in an opening and said, “Any room for some real Irishmen here?”

  Boomer’s face beamed. “Well, what do you know?” He greeted both of them with a swift hug and slap on the back.

  Morgan couldn’t believe the chances of running into the guy. “Thought for sure you’d be basking in the Florida sunshine by now,” he told Boomer.

  “Nah. Just recooped in an evac before they reassigned me to G Company.”

  Jack settled in his seat. “So how’s your girlfriend holding up?”

  “Swell as ever.” Boomer displayed his infamous tattoo. “Her jugs are little lopsided, but she can still dance.” He shuffled his knuckles—Charlie used to love the shake of her hips—in a presentation that spurred more laughs. Then he guzzled his pint and turned to the bar. “Madame, s’il vous plaît. Another round.”

  Minutes later, a buxom French woman arrived toting a tray filled with pints of dark, foamy beer. The soldiers seized their glasses and bid merci while Boomer handed one to Morgan.

  “Actually, man, got a quick errand to run.” Morgan tried to give it back.

  “What are you thinkin', refusing a perfectly good stout? Wanna piss off your ancestors?”

  “Sit your ass down, Mac,” Jack hollered. “It’s your birthday.”

  “Birthday?” Boomer cried. “Now we really have something to celebrate.” He raised his pint above the group. “To the birthday boy!”

  “Hear! Hear!” they all chorused.

  What choice did Morgan have? Besides, his bad knee was starting to act up after a full day of covering the city on foot. A short rest would do him good.

  He sat down and took a chug of the thick, room-temperature drink that tasted like tree bark. A reflexive cough fought to surface, challenging his pride.

  Boomer lifted his pint again. “To going home!”

  “To going home,” the group echoed, commanding Morgan to take a second but smoother swig.

  Camp scuttlebutt had run rampant about the possibility of GIs being transferred to reinforce Allied offensives against the Japanese. Either word hadn’t reached the guys at Boomer’s table, or they’d chosen to focus on their homeward cruise regardless.

  “Gentlemen.” Boomer’s speech began to slur. “May you all live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent.”

  For once, Morgan wished he’d followed Jack’s example. Waiting to eat his own baguette would have been a wise decision, since the drink in his hand was markedly more potent than 3.2 beers at the PX. Another good reason to sneak out soon.

  As he turned back to the table, the guys clanked his glass. He downed what was to be his last hefty swallow, but the thought took a backseat to the tingling in his legs, followed by his feet. Before he knew it, another round of pints had arrived. Then another. The soldiers swayed to “Bless ‘Em All” and “Roll Me Over in the Clover,” their volume growing with each serving.

  Morgan was fairly certain he himself had made a couple of toasts, though he couldn’t recall what he’d said. All he knew for sure was he couldn’t feel his nose and mouth. While patting his lips to make sure they were still there, he felt two hands massaging his shoulders. He tipped his head back and slowly took in the hazy upside-down view of a ravishing young woman.

  “Allô, monsieur,” she said in a come-hither tone. She swung around his seat, dizzying him as she slid onto his lap. A scanty black corset laced her tiny waist.

  “Mac, this is Monique,” he heard Jack say.

  The girl smiled with red painted lips. She tossed her long black mane off her shoulders to reveal the paleness of her flesh. Before Morgan could speak, she ran her hands through his hair. His eyelids drooped closed. The lulling movements of her fingers hypnotized him. He breathed in the heady scent of her sugary-sweet perfume, even more intoxicating than the stout he’d consumed.

  “Consider her a birthday present, m’friend.” Jack’s remark yanked Morgan from his daze.

  He opened his eyes. Monique’s generous cleavage stared back.

  The sight caused a physical reaction that would have mortified him had he been sober enough to care.

  Monique appeared amused. She wet her lips as she stood and guided one of his hands to follow her.

  “Have fun, Mac.” Jack grinned like the devil. His arm dangled over the shoulder of a brunette seated sideways on his lap. “Just don’t forget to cover your rifle,” he warned.

  The Army was so paranoid about the spreading of venereal diseases, along with the image of immorality among soldiers overseas, they distributed packs of condoms like an infinite supply of candy to children. But other than rolling them onto the muzzle of his rifle to prevent the bore from rusting, Morgan had never considered actually using the prophylactic devices during his European service.

  His body suddenly had other ideas.

  In a passing blur, Morgan was swept out of the bar and into a dim, barren apartment. Lights from the street flickered through the window, waving shadows across Monique’s curves and the sheeted bed behind her. Silently, they stood facing each other. With a seductive smile, she took his hand and placed it on her bare shoulder. She pulled his fingers across the shelf of her breasts and his legs turned to jelly. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a woman so close, to feel a gentle touch on his skin.

  She stepped forward and pressed her lips to his neck. When she rubbed her thigh against him, he shuddered and closed his eyes. She trailed the tip of her tongue up toward his earlobe, stealing his air. He felt her hands glide down his shirted chest beneath his opened jacket. Every abdominal muscle tensed as she approached the waistline of his trousers.

  “Oh, Betty …” The name drifted out in a gasp.

  And with that, the fantasy began to slip away, towed by a feeling of betrayal against the woman he loved.

  “Wait,” he said meekly.

  Either ignoring or misinterpreting the word, Monique knelt at his feet. She briskly unfastened his military belt buckle, demonstrating her familiarity with the accessory.

  Carnal instinct implored his conscience to look the other way, to savor an act of pleasure that, for a brief passionate moment, could erase all that haunted him.

  Still, his heart battled for control. “We …need to stop.”

  Her overpowering perfume throttled his senses. As she unbuttoned his pants, two words scratched at his mind: Dearest Morgan. His will returned with a vengeance. He jumped back out of Monique’s reach, and her face clouded.

  “Monsieur?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not you. I just—have to go.” He hightailed it out the door, refastening his pants and belt to the best of his impaired ability. On
every corner, servicemen and their female companions embraced. To his left, to his right. Definitely not helping his cause.

  A few wrong turns and several stumbles later, Morgan located Gare du Nord station. In a matter of hours the train would arrive to return them from their furlough.

  He curled into a fetal ball on a wooden bench and clenched his eyes, desperate to fall asleep. Yet every creak and footstep reverberated in his ears. He tossed and turned, couldn’t get comfortable. Which really made no sense. After months of dozing in the dirt, the bench should have felt like a lofty mattress.

  It was useless.

  He might as well journey back to the pub, despite a barrage of ridicule that surely awaited from the guys who’d been debriefed, in both senses of the word, by Monique. Not the ideal, but at least it would be better than camping alone in a cavernous station with too many noises and too many hiding places. Another night of trying to force sleep that refused to come.

  He was about to sit up when an image stopped him. In his mind, Betty materialized. Her flaxen hair flowing in the breeze, her eyes shining like blue glass in the sun. She smiled her perfect smile, then offered her hand, welcoming him home. He folded his arms over his chest, imagining he was holding her, imagining their reunion, and before he knew it, he faded into tranquil sleep.

  37

  Mid-September 1945

  Evanston, Illinois

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s official. The Japanese have surrendered. President Harry Truman has announced that the war is over. I repeat, the war is over.” On a beautiful August day, the male broadcaster’s voice on the floor model radio had sung like an angelic choir.

  Liz’s father had dashed into the kitchen, swooped Liz up, and spun her around until they’d spent every ounce of their laughter. His personal reasons for jubilee needed no explanation. “Victory Over Japan Day” marked a cease to the killing and maiming of his former students and the safe return of those who had survived.

  Finally, a period of healing began for those who had lost so much. Veterans everywhere, no matter the color of their uniform or skin, licked their wounds and headed for home. Prisoners of Japanese internment camps and Jewish concentration camps alike lamented their stolen lives. And broken families around the globe mourned the loss of a generation of young men: boys who became men through valor but whose hair would never gray; soldiers who would never bask in the glory of a victory parade, never smell the warm, milky breath of their newborn babes; sailors who would never turn their sweethearts into brides.

  After taking a hiatus from the university, Julia had returned for summer school to catch up on her missed credits. Liz, oddly aware the roles had reversed, became a regular advocate of nonacademic activities: comedic film showings in the city or sundaes at a local diner. Anything to revive her friend’s smile. In some ways, they’d become closer than ever; in others, they’d never been more independent. And while Liz wanted Julia beside her for support this particular evening, it was a task she had to conquer on her own.

  Alone in the living room, Liz gazed wistfully out the open window. The natural creaks of her house harmonized with those from her rocking chair. Outside, purple clouds rushed over the sky as if floating down a river. She closed her eyes, inhaled the scent. Electricity and moisture. The smell of an approaching thunderstorm.

  Begrudgingly, she lifted her lids and found it was still there. Atop her skirted lap, speckled with dust from the basement, the box waited patiently.

  The gift from her mother.

  Seven years, and yet it appeared exactly as Liz remembered. Against the backdrop of red wrapping, the Mouse King swung his sword. The Nutcracker stood stoically with his tall hat and narrow beard. In ballet tutu and pointe shoes, the Sugar Plum Fairy elegantly stretched her arms, her face a featureless blur. No expression, no clear identity. The box’s skinny white ribbon, just as before, cut through her figure, dividing her in two.

  Liz had spent countless nights back then peering at this very package, hoping to one day see her mother again—unaware Isabelle’s image had been right in front of her the whole time.

  And here they were, face-to-face once more.

  It had taken months of internal debating for Liz to retrieve the gift. Who knew if it was still stored in the basement, or how long it would take to find the thing, or if a pile of clutter had crushed it beyond recognition or repair.

  Of course, the real reason for her delay—as Morgan had seen straight through and told her so—was her fear of letting go. As always, and on more levels than he knew, he was right. Liz hadn’t been ready to forsake her anger or resentment, not since fully grasping the selfishness of her mother’s departure. The woman had left just before Christmas, and after an argument, no less. What else was a daughter to think or feel?

  But when those emotions had subsided, a more challenging form of letting go loomed: the relinquishment of hope. A young girl’s hope. The dream that a wrapped present could reverse time, or at least earn her mother’s approval.

  Touching the rectangular gift tag now, Liz flashed back to the rumored phone call that had ignited their fight, about a mechanic’s son ruining her reputation, her bright future. And suddenly she realized: In all the years since, her check-off list of acceptable standards had been, in some odd way, linked to the possibility of Isabelle’s return.

  Which, Liz finally accepted, wasn’t going to happen. Even if the package stayed sealed forever.

  Nudged by the revelation, she stepped through her progression, first by untying the ribbon. Next, she carefully edged away the tape. The ripened adhesive detached with little effort and the paper fell away. No resistance at her touch. As if it had needed but her unspoken permission to unveil the lone brown box now resting on her lap.

  At last, so close to its contents, she felt a youthful charge of anxiousness. She removed the lid and plunged her hands into the crinkled layers of matching brown tissue. At the bottom, her fingers closed on an object. A book. Before she could speculate further, she pulled it out.

  A pattern of irises flowed over the cover, shades of purple and green. The flowers were her favorite, the same as she’d helped Nana plant in her garden as a little girl. Two imprinted words stated the title in white calligraphic lettering: My Story.

  It was a journal filled with blank pages. Not a mark, save a handwritten note on the bottom inside cover.

  An inscription.

  She steadied herself with a long breath before reading.

  Follow your passions, follow your heart.

  Create your own story in life, Elizabeth,

  and never stray from your dreams.

  Love and blessings,

  Mother

  Liz examined the precise script, startlingly similar to her own. She detected no trace of the quiet suffering that had spurred the message. No regrets or indication of her mother’s ultimate plans. Yet the words sent unexpected warmth through her chest. It was a lesson hard won and offered none too late:

  Never lose sight of who you are.

  How alike they had been, breaking free of the logical molds that defied their hearts’ demands—even when it required painfully leaving others behind. Liz had severed her relationship with Dalton, in spite of her deep care for him, due to her confidence that each of them would be better off in the end. Maybe her mother’s intentions had been the same.

  Maybe, true to her father’s claim, Isabelle had simply loved both of them the best she knew how. And in accepting that, in allowing that bittersweet reality through the gates of her soul, Liz could finally let her go.

  She traced the inscription with her fingertips. Her skin brushed every angled stroke. When she completed her mother’s name, she closed the book, knowing she would soon take a pen to its pages.

  Through the window, she again admired the streaming lavender clouds. A thin glaze of pink added a lining to their edges. The masses shifted and shapes reconfigured, and she now understood the scent. Electricity and moisture, energy and water. The symbols of change
, and of strength.

  After several minutes, her task complete, Liz rewarded herself by unsealing another gift. Morgan’s latest post. The letter, as welcoming as a heated hearth, provided comfort before she’d read even a single line.

  My dearest Betty,

  THE WAR IS OVER! I can hardly believe the news. Fellas over here have been so loud whooping it up that I wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear them clear to Chicago. I, on the other hand, might be the only one who’s afraid to cheer too wildly. Can’t help thinking some colonel is going to break up the party and tell us it was a big mistake, that the war is still on and we’re moving up to the front. Just seems too good to be true, sweetheart, after all this time. Even reading the news and dirt in “Stars and Stripes” hasn’t done much to convince me. Guess I won’t really believe it until I’m boarded on a ship headed for the good ol’ USA.

  No surprise that the boys have already started tallying up their rotation points—how long they’ve been overseas, how many battles and decorations. Apparently we’ve all forgotten how seasick we were on the ride over. Although even I’d agree that two weeks of nearly any illness would be worth suffering to get back to American soil. And most of all, back to you. With all the old-timers here, unfortunately, it will be quite a stretch before I see our outfit listed on the bulletin board.